


The Runway of True Love Never Did Go Smooth

by Enigel



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Community: cabinpres_fic, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/pseuds/Enigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Nemo's <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=1240#t1240">plot triffid of doom</a>: <cite>Carolyn finally comes up with a bet she's sure Douglas can't win: get Martin laid. Disastrous attempts may ensue, but eventually Douglas realizes that she never specified by whom. Bonus points if this involves Douglas once again filling the flight deck with flowers.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nemo_the_Everbeing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemo_the_Everbeing/gifts).



> This fic has started life as a short, humorous, don't-take-it-too-seriously fill to a prompt. Several months later, it still contains humour (one hopes), but also more airports than you could shake a map at, light angst, deep thoughts, tropes, singing, and possibly the _true_ true meaning of Christmas.
> 
> Innie is a heroine for sticking with me through the endless marshes of editing and this triffid of a fic owes a lot to her patience and insight.

"And here's the budget for the trip - 8000 pounds precisely," Martin said proudly, proffering a printout with neatly arranged columns.

"Excellent," Carolyn said. "Well under ten thousand. I hope you didn't sell any bits of the aeroplane to accomplish that, did you?"

"Carolyn!"

"Not you, Martin - Douglas."

"You know our gallant captain would never allow such sacrilege to take place, even if I had it in me to deprive Gertie of more parts than are already falling off of their own accord..."

"I thought you'd be more pleased," Martin said with a confused little frown.

"I _am_ pleased, Martin. This is my _happy_ face."

"Not that anyone could tell the difference..." Douglas muttered.

"Now, Martin, why don't you go and do your logbook? I want a word with this one," she indicated Douglas with an arch of her eyebrows.

"Very well, I'll... go and do my logbook then," Martin said, with all the dignity of a man who knows he's being dismissed and chooses to make it look like he meant to do that anyway.

"There's a good captain!" Carolyn said cheerfully.

Martin, looking from CEO to FO, must have assumed Douglas was going to be submitted to an interrogation, because he made a little sympathetic grimace at Douglas and then fled.

"Hmm, that _was_ quite a feat. Are you sure you didn't steal his landing or physically restrain him from requesting a diversion?"

"Absolutely. Feel free to ask the captain, if you'd like - though, of course, that might seem suspicious and raise a few questions... I assure you, however, that I did no such thing. The flight went smoothly _and_ cheaply because I just am that lucky."

"Are you now?" Carolyn asked shrewdly.

"Yes, more lucky than he is _un_ lucky, certainly."

At that, Carolyn got a funny sort of look in her eyes. Douglas hadn't been there, of course, but he imagined that was the look she got when Martin made his bid to work for "half of whatever she paid the previous guy". It was a look that said "trap".

"How certain are you of your legendary good luck? And how would you like the Camembert for the _rest of the year_?"

"Hmm, _quite_ certain. And what bit of my soul would I have to gamble for that kind of stake?"

"No-no, nothing like that. You'd be doing a good deed; in fact, some might even call it charitable, though not in the most... traditional of senses."

Douglas raised his eyebrows, inviting her to go on.

"You can have the Camembert for the rest of the year - as of the moment of actually winning the bet, which adds the nice incentive of a deadline to it - _if_ you can get Martin laid."

Few things still surprised Douglas Richardson, and even fewer people, but it seemed like Carolyn had just joined the select club.

"Goodness gracious, Carolyn!"

"Or you can settle for the next two trips' worth of Camembert, which will both be next week, if the challenge is too much for you."

"I was actually wondering at your choice for a bet. Didn't know you harboured any interest in the state of Sir's lovelife, or deplorable absence of one."

"Well, if I win, I get the Camembert back, and you pay for your own hotel for two trips, as part of our previous bet. If you win, I have two happy pilots, which is highly beneficial for my airline."

"I thought we were an air-dot. And you don't really think I can win."

"Not for a moment, but it is interesting, isn't it? Your invincible luck against Martin's invincible _lack_ of it. Oh, and no cheating, promising Martin to split up the Camembert with him if he commits perjury. You know he can't lie worth a damn and I _will_ confront him about it if I suspect even a whiff of foul play."

"Carolyn! As if I ever would..."


	2. Stanstead

Douglas spotted the target right at the door and got ready to jump into action.

She was carrying a food tray, and maneuvering somewhat gingerly in the packed cafeteria. The only free table was the one next to theirs. He moved swiftly, swapping Carolyn's chair, which had Carolyn's coat on its back, with one of the free chairs, and then positioned his own chair closer to the other table.

The target was dithering between the two tables, biting her lip. Pretty, but not intimidatingly so, and shorter than Martin - perfect.

"Oh, miss, excuse me, miss?" he began, in his smoothest voice. "If I may be so bold, I believe this is the seat you're looking for. MJN Air would be delighted if you joined us."

"Wow, really?" She laughed, sounding awed.

"Of course," Douglas said, getting up and pulling out the chair for her. It just so happened that the chair was next to Martin's.

Arthur and Martin emerged from their debate over the relative merits of green and red apples as relating to the dynamics of juggling, and seemed to notice her for the first time.

"Oh, hello," Martin said to her, then, in a lower voice, to Douglas: "Douglas, what are you doing? What about Carolyn?"

"Oh, don't you worry," Douglas muttered back, then raised his voice to its normal volume.

"Wow, I get to sit next to a captain," the girl was saying.

 _Yes!_ thought Douglas, already tasting the sweet cheese of victory. Anyone - let alone a civilian - who identified Martin as the captain at first sight was sure to hold the key to his heart.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Candy," she said abruptly, extending a delicate hand, the look of which was slightly marred by the chipped nail varnish.

"Where?" Arthur chimed in eagerly, inspecting her hand on both sides.

She giggled.

"No, I mean, I'm Candy."

"Oh. Pleased to meet you, Candy. I'm Captain Martin Crieff, and these are First Officer Douglas Richardson and-"

"I'm Arthur," Arthur said cheerily.

"-our steward, Arthur Shappey," Martin finished in the same time.

"Thanks for letting me sit with you. I've always wanted to meet the flight crew, you know, but they always seem so aloof and unapproachable, in their crisp uniforms and hats."

" _I_ don't have a uniform!" Arthur piped in.

"But he does have a hat," Douglas intervened, feeling that the situation was somehow escaping his control.

"He made _himself_ a hat," Martin said, frowning at Douglas accusingly. What was Martin playing at? "It's not the same. It's a very... friendly and approachable hat."

"Oh, can I see it?"

Hats exchanged hands and cooing exclamations were heard.

"And he wears the same jumper on every flight, which rather moots the need for an official uniform, not that Carolyn would give him one..."

"Oh, that's so sweet!" Candy said. "It's like I do, I always wear the same shoes when I fly. They're my lucky shoes, you see."

"Doesn't that get rather... uncomfortable in the winter?" Martin inquired.

"Oh yeah!" she agreed heartily.

Douglas closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, he saw Carolyn, approaching the table at a brisk pace.

"Hello, Carolyn. I saved you a seat here," he said while switching chairs, "with me. Arthur, don't you want to join your _mother_ at the table, as usual?"

"Oh, no, Douglas, I'm fine here."

"Really, so ready to be deserting your dear mother?"

Carolyn's eyes narrowed. If only she weren't quite so shrewd.

"Arthur, don't you dare leave that table. Your dear mother commands you so."

"Thanks Mum!" he said earnestly.

"Sweet! It's like the grown-ups' table and the kids' table we have at home!" Candy said happily.

"Isn't it just?" Carolyn said, smug tone grating on Douglas' ears.

"Well," Martin said, trying to recover some of his dignity, "I suppose every kids' table needs a responsible adult to watch over them."

"And who would that be?" Douglas muttered, glowering at Carolyn.

* * *

"Martin, if this is how you treat opportunities when they present themselves to you - which is enough of a leap-year-like phenomenon to be cherished instead of disdained - I'm not surprised you have such a terrible track record with relationships."

"Douglas, I wasn't going to use the prestige of the uniform to take advantage of a young, impressionable girl. I am above that," he said loftily, implying that other persons present might not be. Douglas, as the only other person present, ignored such a pointless stating of the obvious and pressed on.

"You could just get her number, a date..."

"I did get Candy's number. For Arthur, who forgot to note it down, and who does have a date with her."

Douglas opened his mouth, at least three sarcastic replies crowding each other on the tip of his tongue; none emerged victorious, however, and he closed his mouth.

The gentle, subtle approach hadn't worked. Time for a different tack.


	3. Orly

"Michelle, this is my _Capitaine_ , Martin Crieff. Martin, this is the lovely Michelle Darieux."

"P-pleased to meet you," Martin stammered.

"A pleasure to meet you, _Capitaine_." Michelle smiled, unleashing two rows of blindingly white teeth.

"I'll leave you two to get acquainted," said Douglas, making a smooth retreat out of their line of sight. He then doubled back behind a separating panel and found a discreet place from which to survey the encounter.

* * *

"I used to be fascinated by planes, you know. I actually wanted to become a stewardess! But my parents insisted I go to a business school. I fought them, how you say, teeth and nails? but in the end they were the money givers."

"Oh. How terrible! Are you still... upset about it?"

"Upset? _Mon Dieu, pas du tout_! I have my own business now, a recruitment and placement agency. I can travel wherever _I_ choose, not where other people see fit to dispatch me. To think that I could have been just another smile on long legs, at the beck and call of a horde of rude oafs in a tin can."

Martin's face fell.

"Yes, I... see. Very... very good for you. Well, Michelle, it's been lovely talking to you, but my tin can will need me soon for pre-flight checks."

She smiled indulgently and put an elegant hand on his elbow.

"Oh, Martin, I didn't mean it like that. To be the captain is of course much more dignified. Not to mention the opportunities, especially in a small company like yours. Your manager is quite old, isn't she? If you move smart you could become an associate within two years; the son shouldn't be hard to get out of the way, what with his, ah, _condition_ , and then you could inherit the whole..."

Martin stood up abruptly, shaking off her hand; her perfectly plucked eyebrows curved delicately above her beautiful green eyes.

"Martin? Is there a problem?"

"Yes, I... really need to go. Have a nice day."

* * *

Later in the evening, Martin related a very abridged and highly edited version of the encounter to Douglas. He looked upset and glanced curiously at Douglas every so often. Douglas managed to distract him with stories of misspent layovers and crew lounge parties, while ruminating over what he'd seen. He felt somewhat pressed to reconsider his memories of Ms Darieux. Perhaps she'd gone more callous in the years since he'd known her. He couldn't have grown softer; that was out of the question.


	4. Lisbon

"What do you have your eyes set upon, Captain Hawkeye?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just... taking in the surroundings. Never been to Lisbon before, and..."

Douglas stepped closer to the railing where Martin was leaning.

"Oh, and what lovely surroundings, indeed! Good eye, Captain, although a bit out of your league, if you don't mind me saying."

"What are you talking about?"

"That lovely brunette in the stunning red dress, of course. Don't disappoint me by telling me you weren't checking her out, Martin. Do you want to or shall I?"

"Want to what?"

"Offer to 'buy her a drink', Captain Clueless."

"I thought you didn't... do that anymore," Martin said, eying him suspiciously.

"Ah, but that was when I thought I was a happily married man. As you no doubt recall, the 'happily' part has recently come into question."

"Oh, Douglas..."

"No, no, don't get maudlin on me, Captain. We'll attempt to turn this into a beneficial experience for both of us. Watch and learn."

* * *

"Would you like me to get you that drink? Or would you prefer the waiter, bound and cuffed, to do with as you pleased?"

"Both, if you'd be so kind, Captain... Ah," she said, as she turned to look Douglas up and down.

"First Officer Douglas Richardson, at your service, Miss."

"Are your pick-up lines always so bellicose, FO?"

"No, they're always custom made for the lovely intended recipient, Miss..."

"Adelina," she said airily. She extended her hand, but, Douglas observed with not inconsiderable surprise, not to him - to... Martin.

" _You_ are the captain," she said, with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

Douglas regrouped quickly and stepped ever so discreetly back.

"Helllo, yes, um, Captain Martin Crieff, at your service," Martin said haltingly, parroting Douglas.

"Do you always send your FO as your advance guard, to warm them up?"

Martin babbled something, but she cut him off, placing a possessive, perfectly manicured hand on his sleeve, right on the four golden stripes.

"Well, it has worked."

Douglas pushed a glass in Martin's hand - non-alcoholic, he knew Martin all too well - and another in Adelina's direction, then leaned in to whisper in Martin's ear.

"Good luck, Captain!"

* * *

"Douglas, why did you leave me on my own?" Martin hissed at him as soon as they were alone on the flight deck again.

" _Martin_ , why are _you_ back so early? What could you possibly have done to put her off? She was practically ready to strip you off right there and then! Don't know why, but it's best not to question these things when they happen to you..."

"Well, that's just it! I didn't... I couldn't..." Martin's cheeks went a fetching shade of ripe tomato. "She was _pawing_ at my uniform! And my epaulets!"

"And soon enough, she'd have been pawing at _you_. You wouldn't have had to keep your clothes on for much longer, or had the subtle clues escaped you?"

"No, actually... I... She said 'The Captain must retain his uniform at all times.'" His voice grew shriller. "That's... that's a completely inappropriate use of the uniform!"

"She was lovely, sexy and ready to go. For _you_."

"Not for me, for my- uniform."

"Hmm, I'd have thought you _were_ your uniform..." Douglas drawled.

Martin's face fell; he'd never looked so hurt, Douglas noted with surprise, not even when Douglas had won 200 coin tosses in a row without cheating.

"Well," he said in a clipped tone, " _First Officer_ , maybe that's all I am to _you_." He stood, spine straight and chin held high.

"I didn't mean it like that," Douglas lied, masking his surprise under well-practiced smooth tones, "I meant - that's your pride and joy, isn't it, being an airline captain?"

"Oh," Martin said snidely, "I don't expect it's ever occurred to you that maybe that's not all I am. And that maybe I would have more pride, and certainly more... joy at _not_ losing my cherry in- in an airport toilet."

Oh. Douglas blinked. It seemed he'd severely miscalculated something, and it wasn't only the captain's experience or lack thereof. Martin must have been really upset if he let slip such an eminently exploitable nugget of information about himself to the man most likely to sacrifice it on the altar of sarcasm. The "Virgin Airlines" quip was only the most obvious of all the responses that presented themselves.

As if coming to the same conclusion at the same time, Martin clamped a hand over his mouth and his eyes went wide with panic. He ran out of the cabin.

"Martin!" Douglas called after him, but the door was already snapping shut. The draught of air made the flight plan flutter dramatically to the floor, and Douglas let it lie there.


	5. Brno

"You seem disgustingly smug for 7am, Douglas. Anything I should know?"

"Oh, nothing, Carolyn. Just that Martin has bumped into a nice girl yesterday and they seem to have hit it off quite nicely. And, you know, he called to let me know he wouldn't be needing his hotel room, but I'm sure you've nothing to worry about."

Carolyn smirked triumphantly.

"Nothing, indeed, because it doesn't count if Martin gets _himself_ laid, you know."

"When I said 'bumped' I meant literally. He stumbled into her when she was carrying her food tray to the table. The classic 'spill drink on girl, get to know girl' trick."

Carolyn opened her mouth to object, but Douglas interrupted her.

" _I_ was the one who pushed him."

"Oh, fine. But If I were you I wouldn't throw a cheese party just yet. Remember, it's _Martin_."

* * *

"Morning, Martin. You look particularly cheerful today. I would even go as far as to say... accomplished."

Martin gave him a funny look.

"So?" Douglas prodded.

"So what?"

"How did it go, Martin? Your evening with, uh..."

"Katarina."

"Excellent. How did you two get on?"

"Oh, it was fantastic. When she heard I was a captain, Katie asked me to teach her to fly, so... we spent the night flying."

"Golly!" Arthur said, covering his mouth with his hand.

Douglas rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Congratulations, Martin!"

"And that's a euphemism for...?"

"Really, Carolyn? I'm sure you can work it out by yourself."

"Now, Douglas, I'm an old lady, I'm not so up to date with the youth's jargon. Do elaborate, please."

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, Carolyn." Douglas could already taste the Camembert.

"True, and if there were any gentlemen in this room I wouldn't dream of asking. But all I see are my two pilots and my slack-jawed son. So what did you and the lovely Katarina do, Martin?"

"But I already told you - flying. She had some trouble with the Flight Simulator's latest controls, and asked me to tutor her. She's a natural though. I think she was about to beat me, only we fell asleep first."

"How delightful to meet someone who appreciates your skills!" Carolyn said, perfectly straight-faced.

"Martin, are you telling me that you and a twenty-something-"

"Twenty-eight."

"...a twenty-eight year old woman were up all night playing Flight Simulator?"

"It was the latest release, not even out in Europe officially! But she knows a guy who knows a computer student who can get his hands on-"

"Oh, so the illegal factor was that added bit of spice that your relationship needed."

"What are you talking about? We're friends. She burned a DVD for me and we're going to play online once I'm back home. And I don't see what business of yours this is."

Douglas sighed. Carolyn threw him a smug look over Martin's cap.


	6. Anchorage

"I see, Douglas, that Martin is conspicuous by his absence, so if you have any gloating to do, feel free, gloat away. I won't mind, or hold it against you when I draw up the Christmas schedule."

"Oh, believe me, Carolyn, if I had any gloating to do I wouldn't require your permission, or be threatened into mere modest showing off by your poorly veiled threats."

"So where is our favourite airline captain? Please tell me he hasn't been arrested again for hypothetical axe-wielding."

"No, no, the last time I saw him he seemed secure enough in his captaining skills being recognised that axe-wielding shouldn't seem necessary. He was expounding upon the best techniques to approach a landing when low on fuel, in a crosswind, with a flap failure, while some chap called Neville Fanshawe-Marshall III was listening to him in rapt fascination."

"Oh."

"The girls they'd been presumably trying to woo had slipped away long before that, and I doubt they even noticed."

"Aw, but it's good that he's having a good time, isn't it, Douglas?" Arthur asked earnestly.

"Yes and no, Arthur. The likelihood of his getting to spend a night of passion with a girl have plummeted lower than the temperature in this godforsaken wasteland."

"But still, he's exchanging experience with a fellow aviator. That's good, isn't it?"

"Arthur, that chap was eager to take advice from _Martin_. Our Martin who once landed us with the brakes on. What could he possibly teach _him_?"

"He'd better not try any of it on _my_ plane."

"Oh come on, Douglas, Martin's great! And couldn't he still have the, um, night of passion?"

"No, Arthur, I sincerely doubt that. That chap was the only one who still wanted to talk to him."

"So?"

"So!"

Douglas thought for a moment. So what, indeed? Martin had never mentioned anything either way. He said that Arthur didn't quite float his boat, but the reasons why one might be disinclined to seek a romantic liaison with Arthur were numerous, and even he would rank being a man somewhere third or fourth on the list.

"Arthur? You are, once again, accidentally brilliant."


	7. Reykjavik

He'd drawn up a list. Not on paper, of course, he wouldn't be as tedious as that - a mental catalogue of Martin's romance-worthy assets. The captain's uniform was out, as previously established; the van was out as well, he rather thought; and nothing good seemed to come out of any computer-related endeavours.

He was at a bit of an impasse for a while - until Martin got sloshed again during a long and boring layover, and began singing an aria from some hippie rock opera that Douglas didn't know or care about, something about the Earth and the starshine twinkling together, no doubt the product of that era's enthusiasm for recreational drug use. That wasn't relevant, however; what was relevant was the little "Eureka!" moment upon realising that not even drunkenness made Martin's singing voice falter. Douglas took his own lovely voice for granted - it was his due as the dashing sky god he was - and had never given much thought to the fact that Martin could hold his own rather well in their occasional operatic outbursts.

Carolyn was somewhat surprised and highly suspicious when Douglas was the one to find them the next job, but business was business.

* * *

"Wow, this is brilliant!"

"Arthur, I know that your enthusiasm is boundless and overcompensating for deficiencies in other areas, but what could possibly be so brilliant about Reykjavik? And don't tell me it's the name, you can't even say it right."

"But that's just it! It's so brilliant to go to a place that doesn't even have a proper name. Like going into a fairytale."

Douglas sighed and refrained from trying to temper Arthur's joy. Disappointment would follow soon enough, when they got out of the airport and Arthur realised that the streets and buildings and the general physical layout of the country weren't really made of ice, despite being in Iceland. He focused instead on figuring out how to set up an entirely spontaneous encounter between Martin and Sigurd. As far as Douglas could remember, Sigurd was at least mildly interested in flying, so Martin's conversation wouldn't put him off too much. The most important thing, however, was his inclination to be forgiving of many quirks in a man with a pleasant voice. Douglas smiled a little to himself, part anticipation and part reminiscence.

* * *

"Martin. I wasn't expecting you so early."

"Early? It's almost midnight, and we have to be up at 7 sharp tomorrow."

"Hm, so you're sleeping in the plane after all."

"Well, of course I'm sleeping in the plane, since Carolyn decided to use your stint as Ebenezer Scrooge as inspiration for her financial policy."

"I was sort of hoping that you might persuade Sigurd to let you have the sofa, at the very least. Did he disagree with your rendition of Come Fly with Me?"

"What's one got to do with the other? I couldn't impose on him like that. His boyfriend was going to come in at any moment."

"...Ah. I thought he was single."

"Hm, I thought so too, at first and, well, for most of the evening. But I think he was, you know, reluctant to bring up the subject, thinking I might be one of those closed-minded bigots. And how did you know he asked me to sing Come Fly with Me?"

Douglas nudged the tray in front of him despondently. It kept flopping down and poking him in the ribs. It was too late to change rows, though.

"He's always been a bit of a music buff," he said evasively, knowing that no one but him would understand the exact scale of the understatement.

"Ah yes, he asked me if I was in any choirs, or doing any recordings with my voice. He invited to me join his virtual choir."

That was new to Douglas.

"What on Earth is a virtual choir?"

"Well, several people from around the world, who can't meet to make recordings or sing together, record themselves on their computers. Then they send the separate recordings to Sigurd - he's the computer expert of the group - and... he patches them together. I've listened to a few of them, it's quite interesting. It got a bit monotone after a while though - only men for some reason, and mostly baritones."

"Yes, how odd. Some might even say 'queer'."

"Douglas! I know it might be difficult for someone from your generation, but you can't go on mocking people for their sexuality like that."

Douglas closed his eyes and counted to three.

"Sorry, Martin."

"Maybe that's why he was so cautious to start with, because you introduced us and he assumed I was like you."

"How _did_ the thoroughly modern and groundbreaking concept of sexuality enter that pure and innocent musical conversation?"

"Well, um. We'd been talking about flying, and what it's like to travel the world over, and... And meet people from around the world, and..."

Douglas couldn't see him from where he was, even if he opened his eyes, but Martin's voice was doing that thing it did when he was becoming aware that he should be embarrassed.

"And he said something about pilots having a bed in every port, and... I said I wasn't as frivolous as that, so he asked me if maybe I had someone at home, and... I was too embarrassed to admit I was single."

Douglas could see the disaster unfolding as if he'd been there, but from a perverse impulse of masochism he asked anyway.

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I had a girlfriend."

"You _lied_ and told him you had a girlfriend."

"Yes, all right, I made up a girlfriend! Anyway, after a while he realised he was quite tired, and his boyfriend was going to return from his business trip, so we exchanged email addresses and called it a night. He's going to send me some sheet music so I can record myself for our virtual choir."

Douglas banged his head against the back of 7B, in slow-motion so he wouldn't either hurt his head or break the seat, and groaned.

"What, what's wrong?"

"I... stubbed my toe."

"While lying down? You never do anything as lowly as stubbing your toes."

"Maybe your clumsiness has finally reached critical mass and become contagious," he said tetchily. Douglas rarely allowed the clouds of frustration to darken his serene skies, but it seemed like lately Martin was becoming more and more adept at doing it for him. "As you mentioned before, we have a plane to fly tomorrow. Good night, captain."

"Good... night, first officer."

He could hear Martin's confusion, and could easily extrapolate the frown and the shrug that followed it. He couldn't care less.


	8. San Francisco

"I don't think I'm his type," Brady said, winking. "You should have told me you were trying to dump him, Douglas, you old fox."

For the first time in recorded history, Douglas found himself without polysyllabic words. "Uh. What?"

"He wouldn't stop going on and on about you! If I wasn't so confident in my manly charms I'd be offended, you know."

"Knowing him, I can hardly believe that he was singing my praises."

"Well, no," admitted Brady. "Not exactly. But hell hath no fury like a captain scorned, so I figured he was just bitter 'cause you're, you know, trying to dump him."

"But I'm not! We're not... like that."

"So, repression, not bitterness. Well then, maybe you should 'be like that'," Brady said and winked again.

Damn. It looked more and more likely that if he wanted to get Martin laid before the end of the year - or, indeed, before the end of the world - he'd have to do it himself. Oh, he thought, as the meaning of what Brady had been saying sunk in fully. _Oh._


	9. Antwerp

Douglas counted backwards, trying to look nonchalant and seductive at the same time. He didn't have a mirror handy, but this was one of his best looks. 4, 3, 2, 1...

Martin entered the flight deck and stopped in the door. Douglas tried to catch his expression, the moment where the shock would turn into secret delight and then feigned nonchalance. Martin's nonchalance, he remembered, was awfully cartoon-y, but it was charming that he always tried. The moment failed to occur.

"Douglas! Are you smuggling again? At'choo! Do you _want_ us to lose our licence?"

"No, no, no, Martin. Martin, these are, well, for you."

Delight and nonchalance were still sorely missing from Martin's reddening face; 'vivid outrage' seemed a more correct description.

"Wha- at'choo!"

Douglas felt a sliver of dread. His plans _never_ gang agley. Well, hardly _ever_ , he amended when memories of the carp incident surfaced to the otherwise limpid pool of his conscience. OK, _sometimes_ , he conceded, when the carp memory was joined by the vivid remembrance of a freshly-washed BMW torpedoed by a bottle of wine.

"I remembered how disappointed you were when I gave all those orchids to Milo, and I thought I'd compensate and bring some lovely botanical specimens that were just for you."

"So you confess that you _are_ trying to kill me? At'choo-at'choo-AT'CHOO!"

Martin fled the flight deck, red-faced and eyes streaming.

"Skip, are you all right?" Arthur's worried voice drifted towards the flight deck, before Arthur's worried face popped in the door. "Douglas, why did you make Skipper cry?"

"Arthur. Why did _you_ tell me Martin loves tulips? He's allergic to the wretched things!"

"But he said so! Although... Now you mention it, I think he might have said he _loaves_ them."

Douglas sighed.

"Could you be trying to say that he _loathes_ them, perchance?"

"Yeah, could be. I always get these mixed up. Loathes. Loaves. Loves. Loths."

"Oh, shut up and help me get rid of these."


	10. Fitton

"Bye chaps, see you next week!"

"Bye Arthur," they said in a chorus.

Douglas turned to Martin.

"Martin, would you like to come over for a drink? I owe you one for giving me that landing."

"Yes, well, after you pointed out that I would be an irresponsible ruffian if I didn't, that all our deaths would be on my head, and then _knocked me out of my chair_ , the pleasure was all mine."

"Sarcasm doesn't fit you, Martin. Sarcasm is for old, cynical, jaded sky wolves like me."

"Yes, well, I need to start practicing early."

A long silence followed. Douglas broke it before it could cross the thin line between 'moody' and 'embarrassing'.

"I'm sorry for stealing your landing in such a rude manner, Martin. The offer still stands. I'd... like for you to come over. You've never actually been inside my house, you know."

"Well, I... Isn't it going to be kind of awkward, what with your wife knowing now that I knew what she didn't know then, and probably suspecting that now I know... well, you know?"

"Meeting Helena again with all that burden of knowledge between you? Yes, it might have been a little thorny - if we were still living in the same house."

"Oh. Oh God. I'm so sorry."

"Hmm. Thank you. Shall I call a cab?"

* * *

"I can't believe you got me to play your stupid computer game," Douglas muttered, rubbing his sore wrist.

"Hah! What you can't believe is that you're actually losing at something! Woo-hoo!" Martin whooped, punching the air. "Maverick wins again!"

Martin's raised arms made a huge victory sign above his head; then he sank back into the cushions, head thrown back over a pillow, letting his arms drape themselves along the top of the sofa. He was grinning in the generous way of inebriated sods everywhere.

If the drunken clot actually began singing the theme to that blasted movie, Douglas was going to have to take drastic measures.

"Thanks," Martin said, directing the full strength of his mushy smile at Douglas. "For letting me win, even though this was supposed to be about comfro- comfittin- making _you_ feel better."

"I _didn't_ let you win. It's the first time I've played that wretched thing in my life. Give me a little time and I'll show you who's the sky god here."

"Nonsense!" Martin mumbled, hands waving lazily, as if to make snow angels out of the sofa. "You're good at anything you try, you really are. I should hate you for that," he mumbled, sighing a little catlike sigh. "Don't know why I don't."

His eyes were drooping shut, pale face contrasting with the champagne-coloured pillow, and Douglas was hanging on to his every word.

Then he began humming "Take my breath away..." under his breath, and Douglas's heart skipped a beat.

His brain skipped a track too, because the next thing he knew he was tasting wine from Martin's lips, while Martin was humming a little pleased sound into his mouth, and the world was soft and champagne-coloured around them.

Then, of course, things went back to normal.

"No, wait, wait, wait," Martin babbled, pushing him away gently.

Douglas sat back and rubbed at his face. Martin held himself awkwardly again, and looked too sober for comfort. He probably would remember everything too, he always did.

"Look, Douglas, I... it's just... if this is about you trying to get back at your wife for cheating..."

"Oh, Martin. If I were trying to get back at her I'd be seducing one of her best friends and then ensuring she learned about it in as traumatic a manner as possible, involving as many of her friends as could be in a web of gossip and back-stabbing."

"Not that you've thought about it or anything..."

"The thought may have crossed my mind, in one of the darker nights of my soul, but I flatter myself that I am above such pettiness."

Martin hesitated, then asked: "None of her friends went for you, did they?"

"I would not know, Martin, I really haven't tried. I find that crossing the line from love to hate is reserved for other, more fickle natures."

"Oh. Oh, you poor sod. You still love her, don't you?"

"I'm not in love with her anymore, and I certainly don't..." He sighed deeply. "Yes."

"See, that wasn't so hard to admit. What you need now is not an affair with your superior officer. What you need," Martin said in what he probably thought of as his comforting tone, while putting an arm around Douglas' shoulder, or at least as much of it as he could, "is a friend to confide in, a shoulder to lean on. I am honoured to provide that, Douglas, my friend."

Douglas sighed again, and conceded that maybe that was for the best. Screw the Camembert. He could get his own, now that he wasn't paying for anyone's tai-chi lessons anymore. Martin was snoring on _his_ shoulder within minutes, and Douglas let himself drift off to sleep. The taste of wine lingered on his tongue and followed him in his dreams.


	11. Rovaniemi

"Wow!" said Arthur, for the tenth or eleventh time that day. Not that anyone was counting. "Can you believe it, Skipper? We're in Santa's homeland!"

"Yes," Douglas drawled. "Maybe this year you'll get your lump of coal fresh and still smouldering."

"A lump of c-coal sounds like a g-great gift at the moment," Martin said through clenched, chattering teeth. "God, I d-d-didn't think it could get c-colder than when we were in Alaska!"

"We were in Alaska in the summer. This is the Scandinavian Peninsula, in the winter. On Christmas Eve, to be precise."

"Yes, none of us has forgotten that, Douglas," Carolyn groused from within the depths of her sumptuous fur coat.

"I could have been with my daughter, watching as her eyes lit up with joy from all the presents I brought her..."

"No, you couldn't have, because your ex-wife got a restraining order on you after the carp incident. So instead of sitting forlornly with a bunch of relatives and a bitter ex, you're making your livelihood alongside your wonderful co-workers and friends, while at the same time giving a bunch of enthusiastic children the chance to explore the legendary realm of Father Christmas, _on_ Christmas."

"They're a bunch of spoiled brats, pulling on the fake beard of a fat man in a red suit."

"Brats mayhaps, but spoiled? I didn't hear _them_ complaining about the cold."

"You didn't hear _me_ complaining about the cold either, it was Martin who... Where _is_ Martin?"

* * *

"It's fine, Arthur, I can manage it."

"Indeed, it seems that you're getting a lot of practice carrying Martin around. I'm beginning to suspect you might like it."

"Shush, Carolyn. And donate your wool mittens and muffler for the cause."

"Why do you need mine?"

"You might not be aware of this little fact, it's rather obscure, but hands tend to be very important in a pilot's job."

"Ha. Ha. I meant: what's wrong with Arthur's?"

"It's all right, Douglas, you can have mine. I'll just stick my hands into my pants to keep them warm!"

"Does that answer your question, Carolyn? Never mind, Arthur. I'll warm him up myself."

* * *

Despite not being a cartoon character, Martin looked like he was about to turn into a block of ice. Douglas pulled back the bed cover, revealing the sheets. He almost wished he hadn't. They were pink, with a pattern of large red hearts; the sight was so ridiculous it was almost endearing - in a "clichés of our lives" sort of way.

"God. D-do you think this is the cat's revenge?" Martin stuttered.

Douglas deposited him on the bed and started to peel his frozen clothes off.

"I don't mind if you ramble deliriously, Iceman, as long as you don't fall asleep."

He covered Martin with the sheets, which were cold but at least not cold _and_ wet, and hurried to the radiator to turn it on. The radiator let out a long, mournful wail, ending in a desolate gurgle, and failed to get any hotter. He returned to the bed, where Martin seemed content to lie and stare at the ceiling.

"You're not allowed to fall asleep while freezing," Douglas insisted. He hesitated briefly, then shrugged and began removing his own clothing. "Or was that only with concussions? Hmm, best not to take any chances."

"N-not delirium," Martin mumbled. "The A-Abu Dhabi cat. The one we almost froze to death."

" _You_ almost froze it to death, but then _we_ didn't. And if I remember correctly, it had quite its moment of glory in Cherbourg, where it somehow managed to shake paws with you, as it were."

"I still have the s-scars," muttered Martin.

"So, you see," Douglas continued, while getting under the covers and wrapping his body around Martin's, "vengeance has already been wreaked, thus there is no need to fear further feline vendetta."

He was expecting some kind of reply, perhaps another reminder about the captain's catastrophic track record with karma, or a crack about his alliteration skills. But Martin was silent for a few seconds too long, even accounting for the delay that freezing could induce in his already questionable thinking processes.

"Martin?"

"W-what are you doing?"

"We are two unattached men, naked under pink bedsheets... I thought that was obvious. I am defrosting you."

"I am not... frozen!" Martin protested. "Chilled, at m-most. Not like ice-cream, more like... champagne."

"Yes. A champagne _popsicle_. Very popular with the places where they serve Fizzy Yogurt and Surprising Rice. Speaking of which, does anything hurt?"

"Hm, no. Although..." Martin was thoughtful, as if trying to make sense of a garbled radio message. "I'm beginning to feel something in my hands, like... like needles or bees or... Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow!"

"M-hm. Thought so."

"Augh, Douglas, what are you doing to me? I wasn't hurting ten minutes ago! Ah-ah-oww! Are you trying to _kill_ me?"

"Yes, Captain Nemo. Rather than abandoning you in your anonymous Scandinavian ditch and allowing hypothermia to follow its natural course, I chose to pick you up and bring you into my bed just so I could kill you with my body heat."

Martin sighed.

"No, obviously not. It just bloody _hurts_ like it."

"Pain is a good sign; it means you still have whatever limb it is that's hurting."

"Oh, is that what your year at medical school has taught you?"

"No, that's what life in general has taught me."

Martin tried to glare at him accusingly; the effect was much mollified by the half-closed eyes and red nose.

"Do you have to go all philosophical when _I'm_ making fun of you?"

"Oh, I can always resume the cheap shots about your height..."

"So you admit they're cheap."

"...or those about how many MJN Air captains does it take to change a light bulb."

"Douglas!" Martin groaned, swatting at him half-heartedly. Douglas caught his arm in a light hold, and was surprised to feel muscle and sinew rather than skin and bones.

"No, no, you'd like that one, the answer is that There Can Be Only One MJN captain..."

Martin smiled tentatively.

"...but it takes three Spanish engineers and a dog, and the light bulb wasn't broken in the first place."

Martin threw a pillow at him, but he was laughing.

Now that the immediate danger had been removed, Douglas took the time to observe the captainy body he was snuggling. He'd never seen Martin in anything less than long sleeves and long trousers, not even in the Sahara. He'd been expecting pale skin and ribs he could play xylophone on, and while the Captain was certainly on the slim side, he was also wiry and more fit than he'd have thought. Not that he'd been giving it much thought. Well, not until he'd lost twenty rounds of Flight Simulator 2010 DeLuxe: SpaceRace Expansion Pack and Martin had celebrated by getting tipsy and smiling and singing...

He realised he'd been staring when he caught Martin's self-conscious gaze.

"Work out a lot, Captain?" he asked teasingly.

"Yes, I do a lot of heavy lifting in my copious spare time," Martin drawled, sounding too content to be sarcastic. "At the Man With A Van Gym, remember."

"Ah yes, how could I forget."

Martin's mouth turned a bit, and Douglas rubbed his pleasingly toned forearm in reassurance.

"Well, the One Man Van Health Club seems to be pretty good for you. Doing... vanerobics and push-box-ups and..."

Martin groaned and turned the edges of the pillow up to cover his ears. Douglas suspected that Martin had been going for "menacing growl", but the way it came out was... It reminded him of the taste of wine and made him wonder what Martin's bedroom voice would sound like, once he got around to needing one. He changed the subject.

"How are you feeling now? Other than growly, groggy and grateful, of course."

Martin huffed a laugh and then sighed deeply.

"Well... tired. Or is that covered under groggy? Warm all over, like I'd been drinking." He closed his eyes. "With my luck I'll probably have a hangover, too."

"Does this still hurt?"

Douglas went over his hands, arms and feet again, trying his damnedest to keep his treacherous hands from turning the motions into caresses. It was a bit difficult, the way Martin leaned into his every touch, and a bit too late.

"Oh. Mm. Oh. No. No," Martin murmured. "Not... painful anymore."

His voice was even lower, almost gravelly. Douglas hadn't known Martin's voice could sound like that. He really, really needed to stop thinking about what _other_ sounds Martin's throat could produce, with the right stimuli... Douglas swallowed against the sudden dryness of his mouth and cleared his throat.

"I am also pleased to say that I couldn't find any signs of frostbite whatsoever, anywhere at all." His hands lingered on a slim thigh. "All systems fully functional... Oh."

He hadn't meant to look, really. Well, he hadn't meant to _stare_ , anyway, and he definitely hadn't meant for his heart to speed up like that.

It was difficult to tell if Martin was blushing, with his face already as red as it was.

"And ready for take-off, too, it seems."

Martin hid his face in his hands.

"Stop it, Douglas, I'm embarrassed enough already."

"Why ever would you be?"

Martin dragged the pillow over his head and his groan came out muffled.

"Douglas..."

"I'm flattered."

One blue-grey eye peeked out.

"Really?"

"Really. So don't dash my illusions by pointing out it was just a physical response of the body or other such clinical rubbish."

"I..." Martin looked away. "I wasn't going to, actually."

"Good."

Douglas removed the revolting pink cushion off Martin's face. Martin looked him in the eyes briefly, then turned away again. His eyelashes fluttered nervously, and Douglas gave in to the temptation and touched Martin's face, caressing his cheek.

"Douglas. I have been thinking about- that night, and..." He bit his lips, chewed on them.

Douglas wondered what they tasted like today, and if he'd get the chance to find out.

"I- I would... I mean, I am..." Martin was saying. "I mean, you know where I stand. But what about... Where do you stand?"

Douglas cradled Martin's head in his hand, tangling his fingers in the soft dishevelled hair.

"I think the fact that I can understand you perfectly, even though you've provided me with only about an eighth of a complete thought, speaks volumes about our deep and meaningful connection."

Martin smiled faintly, in a shy but honest and open way, like Douglas had rarely ever seen. His hands fluttered nervously along Douglas' arms, setting off a flurry of strange, electric sensations, before they settled on his shoulders, squeezing gently, neither pulling Douglas closer nor pushing him away.

"What, no cracks about my incomparable way with words or irresistible come-ons?"

"No, no, I have long since come to terms with the fact that my sheer wonderfulness can render tongue-tied even the most skilled tongues."

Martin huffed a laugh.

"I _know_ you're feeding me a line for a naughty pun in there, but it's just not happening."

"It's the thought that counts," Douglas said magnanimously, placing a kiss on Martin's throat and swiping his tongue over his collarbone.

"Hmm," Martin hummed, making a noise of pleasure that Douglas felt more than heard.

"So, are you... going to do something about it?" Martin whispered.

"Well," Douglas said carefully. "Does this," he tilted his head to point at their pink cottony cocoon, and at the situation in general, "fulfill your... expectations for that magical moment?"

Martin smiled widely, and squeezed his shoulders, pulling him down.

"It's not about the place, Douglas," he said softly, and it was, of course, obvious, and at the same time wondrous to hear aloud.

* * *

Douglas tried to leave his, _their_ room as inconspicuously as possible in a tiny hotel with creaky doors, creaky floorboards and thin walls. But Martin had asked for hot tea, and one of the few magic words he remembered from his year as a medical student was hydration, so tea he should bring. Or at least whatever seemed safest in a hotel that considered whale lard on bread a perfectly fashionable dinner.

"Good grief, Douglas, you slimy cheat!"

Douglas was far too cool for jumping out of his skin, so internally he described what he did as acknowledging Carolyn's presence with a sharp jolt of his head. She _would_ be the one to persuade creaky floors to refrain from creaking until it was convenient for her; he liked to think he could have done it too, but he'd forgotten to turn his mojo on, probably because of Martin.

"You didn't mention anything about _who_ would be allowed to do the getting him laid part, did you?" he asked, feigning nonchalance with the ease of decades of having experienced the real thing.

"No, I fully admit it never crossed my mind that you'd stoop so low as to exchange sex for Camembert!" Carolyn said tartly. Douglas didn't suspect any feigning about that. "I shall be sure to add this to your profile henceforth."

Yep, all Martin's fault, all of it.

"Carolyn," he said seriously, "if you ever mention anything to anyone even remotely insinuating what chain of events led to this, I promise you... I promise you'll have _two_ very unhappy pilots."

"Bet's off, then?"

"There was never a bet."

"Yees, and Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia, peace is war, and truth is lie. Fine. But Douglas."

"Yes."

"If you damage my pilot in any way, _I_ will damage you in all the ways I can think of."

"Oh Carolyn, men have been having homosexual sex for millennia, and it has hardly ever resulted in injury when at least one party knew what he was doing, and I _always_ know what I'm doing. I think he'll be fine."

"Douglas, I'm 64 years old, and a great number of those years have been spent around pilots, mechanics and wealthy businessmen. It takes more than your feeble attempt at vulgarity to detract me. You know very well what I mean."

"Hasn't it even occurred to you that I may genuinely care about Martin?"

"Not really, no."

"Ouch," he said flatly.

"I'll be delighted to be proven wrong in the very near future. Now, however, I'll go and try to persuade the hotel to change my room for one that has no walls, floors or ceiling in contact with your honeymoon suite. Good night!"

* * *

When Douglas woke up, the first thing he became aware of was Martin's weight, draped around him like a living, breathing blanket. This was expected and, he found, rather welcome.

The second thing that penetrated his awareness, however, was the sharp smell of cheese wafting in from the other room.

He dislodged Martin carefully, making sure to cover him with the two blankets again, and set out to investigate.

His eyes alighted upon a breakfast tray, populated with a gourmet's wet dream - the Brie, Camembert, and Emmental being the most modest of the lot. He'd never seen Manchego or Rosenborg on Gertie's flight deck, and would probably never do. No card or note, but it had the markings of Carolyn's grumpy benevolence all over it.

Martin was beginning to stir, so Douglas took the tray and marched smugly into the bedroom.

"Breakfast in bed, _captain_?"

" _Camembert_?! And, and, I don't even know how these are pronounced. Oh, _Douglas_. But - how? I didn't think this hotel did anything so fancy."

"Oh Martin, do you still have any doubt that I can achieve anything I set my mind to achieve?"

Martin's delighted smile gave way to a small frown, but it was fond and lacked the usual attempt at bite.

"Yes. Modesty."

Then the frown deepened, and a whole array of little orange warning lights went off in Douglas's mind.

"Douglas..."

"Yes, Martin. More tea? Coffee?"

"Douglas, this wasn't... I mean, I know I'm probably being paranoid and a terrible person for even thinking it, but... This," he gestured to the room at large, "this wasn't some kind of... challenge, or bet, or I don't know what kind of _thing_ you 'set out to achieve', was it, because if so, I-"

"Martin." Douglas took a deep breath. He set the breakfast tray aside and took Martin's face between his hands, because it was his turn to man up. "I- I genuinely care for you very deeply, and I also lust for your body. I'm not using the _other_ L word because, well, I'm not quite ready for it, and frankly I don't think you are either, and also because after my third wedding vows it got a bit worn out, but-"

Martin cut him off, but Douglas didn't think he could be very offended by the kind of interruption that meant he got more proof of Martin's surprisingly quick grasp on the art of kissing him breathless.

"Sorry, Douglas, God, I'm sorry, I told you - paranoid, can't help it with the kind of life I've had before- well, before last night, frankly, and-"

Douglas interrupted him with the same efficient maneuver.

"No offence taken, Martin," he murmured after a while, Martin's mussed hair tickling his chin. "None whatsoever."


End file.
